


When Life Gives You Lemons

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Death, Friendship, Gen, Ghosts, M/M, Necromancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 21:25:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all his life, Sherlock Holmes has been romantically attracted to only two people. He would do anything- give up everything- for either (and both) of them.<br/>They end up giving their lives for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Life Gives You Lemons

**Author's Note:**

> To Alex- I hate you.

In all his life, Sherlock Holmes has been romantically attracted to only two people. He would do anything- give up everything- for either (and both) of them.

They end up giving their lives for him. The first death is Victor’s. The last death is John’s.

He would do anything to bring them back.

* * *

John’s funeral is much more elegant than Victor’s; perhaps because John was a military man, who had (has) made an impact on everyone he met in the battlefield. He was (is) a brilliant man.

Sherlock tries not to think about Victor or about John during the ceremony, but he declares it impossible. Their funerals are the only ones that matter. They were (are) the only ones that matter.

His chest hurts.

Lestrade gives him a knowing look, stepping up in his stead to speak about John (as he had done with Victor). He says everything boring about John that didn’t really matter (about how he served in the army, about how the helped Sherlock on cases) and misses all the important things. (He takes is tea with no sugar, but two on days his shoulder feels stiff. He sleeps on the right side of the bed. He wears his oatmeal jumper once every month and it’s always on a Friday. He hates the dentist. His favorite Doctor is either Tom Baker or David Tennant- he can’t choose. His nose crinkles slightly when he laughs. He constantly goes into parade’s rest when benign. He is madly in love with-)

Sherlock takes a deep breath as Lestrade seats himself beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Sherlock avoids his gaze, because he knows that he’s seen countless allies and friends die in the line of duty (and not), and whenever he thinks of them there is a sadness in his eyes that Sherlock finds himself unable to bear. But he does not fidget away from the oddly (not really) soothing touch.

(Sherlock will never know, but Lestrade had the same look when Sherlock was suffering from withdrawal and rehabilitation when he was a druggie- and he still gets it when he remembers.)

Their chests hurt in unison.

* * *

Sherlock hates Victor’s funeral. These people crowd around a man they hardly spoke to when he was alive, but now mourn him as if he was (is) the most important man in the world.

(Right now, Sherlock thinks that he is. Years later, Victor will find himself tied for that spot.)

He knew (knows) Victor better than any of these idiots could ever have hoped to. It infuriates him to no end when he sees anyone around the casket crying, because as much as he wants (needs) to, he knows that it will not change the fact that Victor is dead.

(Lestrade does his best to honor Victor’s memory by offering Sherlock a place to stay while he sorts himself out. Initially, he declines. Later, he accepts.)

In a futile attempt to clear his head, Sherlock goes to Regent’s Park, sitting on a bench and overlooking the small lake. He sees a young couple sitting on the grass, having a makeshift picnic as they watch the setting sun.

Sherlock hates them and damns them to hell.

(Had he been looking more intently, he would have noticed the delicate and medicinal hands of the man grip the woman’s tightly, as if doing so one final time. He is leaving for military training and service the following day.)

Taking another deep breath, he closes his eyes and tries to force his emotions down. He shakily gasps, eyes watering under their lids as he does his best not to cry- he can’t cry- he can’t-

Something squeezes his hand.

Sherlock’s eyes flutter open (and some of the tears spill down but he doesn’t care) and he looks down at his lap. His hand is there by its lonesome self and without its usual partner, Victor’s hand. But it feels warm.

A feeling grows in Sherlock’s chest, as he lets out a small sigh and walks away, deleting the ‘upsetting’ couple.

(Had he not deleted them, he would recognize the man years later, at a laboratory in St. Bart’s after he returns from Afghanistan.)

(A few years later, he will die.)

* * *

One day after John’s death and the skull on the mantelpiece looks lonely.

* * *

“What’s his name?” John asks.

Sherlock looks up from his mold cultures and to John, who points at the small skull on the mantelpiece using his teacup.

“Oh, Victor,” Sherlock replies offhandedly, not really caring about the question and replying mostly on impulse.

John gives a nod, stepping closer to the skull and tapping it softly. He shouldn’t be surprised that it’s real. He isn’t surprised that it’s smiling.

(He learns why moments after he’s beyond his deathbed.)

* * *

“Mind explaining this to me?” Lestrade has him seated in an interrogation cell, showing him a video tape of the mausoleum where Victor’s body was held.

“Yes,” Sherlock crosses his arms, turning away.

Lestrade lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing his face. “At least tell me where the skull is. The family wants it back.”

Sherlock swallows hard, not speaking. After several minutes of this, Lestrade caves in and releases him, unsure of what to do next. He goes home hours later, still without an idea. But on his front step, a package awaits him.

It’s a skull.

It isn’t from Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock doesn’t delete anything about John after he dies. He tries his best not to linger on the memories regarding their intimate moments, but his chest hurts nonetheless.

His bed feels cold, and he tries not to miss John too much.

He fails.

* * *

A day after John’s funeral and he feels a hand on his shoulder.

* * *

A week after John’s funeral, he sees that the unopened jar of jam is slowly diminishing.

Three weeks later, is it empty.

* * *

Four weeks in and the flat smells like tea sometimes.

* * *

A month and a half and Sherlock feels not-so-lonely by the fire.

* * *

The skull is always smiling.

* * *

Two months after John’s funeral, he hears creaking upstairs, but finds no one. The skull’s smile decreases, but stays (as a sign of hope).

* * *

"Christmas is boring,” Sherlock exclaims, trying his hardest to continue frowning as Victor decorates the small tree in their flat.

Victor shakes his head, a wide grin on his face as he starts to laugh. “Oh, stop being such a Scrooge, love!”

“I am not a Scrooge!” he pouts further, considering being compared to a stupid character the highest offense. “Take that back!”

Victor shakes his head, abandoning the tree and lunging for Sherlock on the couch to tickle him furiously until he turned red with laughter. Afterwards is a mini dinner and then (obviously) sex.

It is his first Christmas with Victor and it is his best.

* * *

Christmas, suffice to say, is unsettling. It is only him, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and (unfortunately) Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson tries to keep the spirit going by singing along to the carols Sherlock plays on his violin. But his playing is automatic and without emotion.

He tries not to think about how much Victor and John enjoyed his music. (“Magical.” “Brilliant.”)

Mycroft comes by before everyone else does (Mrs. Hudson escapes to downstairs to avoid their potential argument) and tries to speak with Sherlock.

“Brother, allow me to-“he is interrupted by a loud screech emitting from the violin, before Sherlock begins to play horrendous versions of various carols. But despite his best efforts, Mycroft remains.

Sherlock ceases playing and turns towards hum angrily, preparing his onslaught of scathing remarks and insults. But they die in his throat when he sees Mycroft place a small box beside Victor, and a Christmas hat on the skull’s head.

“He always liked the holidays, didn’t he?” he gave a half-smile towards the skull, then turns on his heel and walks out, gripping his umbrella tightly. Once he is sure he has left, Sherlock dashes to the bod and opens it: _A Christmas Carol_ by Charles Dickens. On the title page, Mycroft scribbled in a note: _He was right- you’re a Scrooge._

He feels a hand on his shoulder and the ghost of a laugh. When Lestrade arrives from the Yard and Mrs. Hudson from her kitchen with a tray of cookies, Sherlock is widely grinning.

Lestrade thinks he’s in mourning to the extreme. Mrs. Hudson blames the Christmas spirit. Neither of them complain. (Not tonight.)

(If they would listen, they would be able to heat someone singing along to the carols loudly, wrapping an arm around his former lover.)

* * *

Sherlock has no idea why people celebrate the coming of the New Year. He and Victor had (have) the same idea concerning the holiday- that it’s a waste of time.

It’s New Year’s Eve, and everyone (including him and John) are at the Yard, waiting for the countdown to end. While the rest get madly drunk, Sherlock stays in a corner, attempting to plan experiments regarding the inhibiting powers of dish soap.

John walks up to him, grinning maniacally and red-faced with drunkenness. “Sherlock, the countdown’ll start soon!”

“I don’t care,” he rolls his eyes.

“Why not?” John asks, sitting down next to him.

“Because it’s just another day,” Sherlock simply states.

This constitutes a loud laugh from John. “Yes, yes it is. It’s one of the 365 days that we’re alive for the year. We’ve lived long enough- suffered through all the killer experiments and the mad cases- just to arrive at this moment.”

Pulling Sherlock to his feet, he grins widely. “Here’s to another year full of ‘em!”

They kiss when the countdown hits zero. It’s the first New Year’s Sherlock actually enjoys. (Mostly because they have sex afterwards.)

* * *

They hold the same tradition of celebrating at the Yard before midnight. Everyone (as per usual) gets drunk- except for him and Lestrade. But while he goes and mingles about his comrades, Sherlock stays aside and stares at the telly.

A drunken Donovan trudges up to him, letting out a heavy sigh. “Hey, aren’t you gonna celebrate?”

“No,” he replies curtly.

“Huh,” she gives a small smile. “Killjoy- unlike Watson, remember?”

Before Sherlock can reply, she walks away, shrugging indifferently. He feels an overwhelming sense of sadness, but before he can react, a small party hat lands on his lap. Holding it, he stands up and stares at it.

He feels someone wrap their arms around him and place a kiss on his neck, drunken with excitement. He laughs loudly before putting it on.

He yells loudly for John when the countdown hits zero.

(No one notices the noises of someone cheering for themselves.)

* * *

The first week of January is the coldest it’s ever been. He goes into John’s room to borrow the duvet, but finds the warmest jumper is lain out on the bed as if someone purposely left it there.

(Sherlock shivering by the fire on a rather cold night and John takes off his jumper and messily puts it on him.)

He puts it on and goes downstairs, to find that a teabag is on the countertop as if someone wanted him to make some.

(Victor and Sherlock out in the snow, when Sherlock sneezes twice in succession and Victor goes inside and returns with a warm cup of tea.)

He decides to make tea. (He does not notice that there are three cups on the table. He only takes one. The other two were warm.)

* * *

They’re kissing. John's hands run roughly on Victor's scalp as they smash their mouths together. Victor wraps his arms around John's waist, humming as his hard-on brushes against his thigh.

It's beautiful to Sherlock that he is allowed to watch this scene, the contrast of their skin and personalities so strong that they're complimenting, and he finds it hard to concentrate on anything else due to the uncomfortable tightness in his pants.

Victor trails kisses down John's neck and towards his scar, as John practically claws at his back and makes the deepest moans Sherlock has ever heard.

Pulling Victor's head away, John gently pushes his fingers into his mouth and he obediently begins to suck, face flushed and pupils dilated with arousal. Sherlock takes in a deep breath as John uses his free hand to tease at Victor's hardening nipples, causing high-pitched noises to come from Victor as he stars sucking faster.

John pulls out his fingers and presses him against the wall, turning him around before looking up at Sherlock and-

* * *

Sherlock jolts awake, head pounding as his cock throbs with the hardest erection he's had in years. He takes deep breaths, pulling off his shirt and trousers and trying to keep calm when all he can think about I'd the dream.

When he realizes that he's on the couch, he looks up to see the skull, still sitting on the mantelpiece with his grin looking more mischievous than ever. He opens his mouth when his phone buzzes on the table.

/Happy Birthday. GL/

Sherlock lets out a breathy laugh, winking cheekily at the skull.

When he manages to go to sleep, they're waiting for him. He joins them this time, and it's the best sex he's ever had.

* * *

When he wakes up, he sees there are more cum stains on the floor than he could have produced himself and his shirt is draped over him, along with a cup of tea next to his phone on the table.

The tea tastes of cinnamon.

The skull is still grinning.

* * *

The first and only person he decides to tell is Lestrade. It's a day after his birthday and he believes he has pieces together the puzzle. Lestrade is the only person who will listen to him both subjectively and objectively without dismissing him as insane.

(He has seen Sherlock when he was insane and knows that he isn't now.)

As Sherlock tells his story, he feels two different hands on his shoulder, giving him more than enough comport to relay the events.

"Wait," Lestrade interjects as Sherlock is discussing the incident with the jumper, "how are you so sure that this is a ghost and not someone trying to mess with you?"

Sherlock sighs, and then tells him the incidents of the night previous. He has barely started talking about the dreamsex when Lestrade stands up and walks out the door of his office and into the small balcony-esque area and stares at the city, before beginning to hysterically laugh.

Sherlock can almost hear John scoff "Rude" and Victor chuckle in agreement. (He wishes he could actually hear them.)

When Lestrade returns, he takes a deep breath and says he believes him. But not before his cup of coffee falls to the floor.

"Oh fuck you two bastards," he furiously growls, waving his hand in hopes of hitting one of the ghosts. “I’m way too old to be playing Ghostbusters with you idiots.”

“Lestrade, please,” Sherlock rolls his eyes, “you are as curious about this phenomenon as I am.”

“Phenomenon implies something exciting and good,” he glares into nowhere, and Sherlock can’t help but chuckle at his attempts to not be enthused.

(Lestrade decides to become the ‘anchor’, just in case something goes wrong- he doesn’t fully believe Sherlock. Not yet.)

* * *

Lestrade goes home to his quiet flat, exhausted beyond belief. He rubs his forehead and heads into the kitchen, deciding to make some soothing tea.

The tea is already on the countertop, warm and awaiting for him.

He calls Sherlock.

* * *

Their presence is a constant for a few months. He feels them at crime scenes, looking over the bodies beside him and trying to help him out any way they can.

John offers moral advice and Victor offers objective advice. Both are invaluable to him.

_They_ are invaluable to him.

(He loves them both.)

* * *

A kidnapper sneezes and they find his location. (He says a cold chill went through him.)

A killer trips and they are able to grab him. (He says someone punched him in the gut.)

An unnamed body is found and moments later its ID is delivered to NSY. (There are no prints on it.)

Someone shoots meters away from Sherlock when they were aiming for him. (He is found later badly beaten to unconsciousness with no memory of how it happened.)

Mrs. Hudson bakes cookies and a few are eaten. (Her mouse traps remain empty.)

Lestrade buys packs of liquor and pours some into two cup, staring at them while he drinks and talks. (He sees both empty before him.)

Mycroft's security cameras are moved. (There is a slight haze before they change direction.)

Sherlock feels warm in his bed. (Two people lay next to him.)

* * *

One day, his bed feels cold. He looks around on his bed, searching for the warmth but it is not there. He tries calming himself, slowly rising from his bed and looking around. He does his best to level his pulse as he heads into the kitchen. There are no small surprises waiting for him. There is nothing.

Sherlock feels tightness in his chest and he finds it difficult to breathe. They can’t be gone. They can’t. They. Can’t.

He can’t breathe.

Before he knows it, he calls Lestrade and starts to hyperventilate into the phone. “They- they- they-“

“ _Sherlock? What-?_ ”

Sherlock grows frustrated, angry that Lestrade cannot understand they- that they- oh, god, they’re really- “They’re gone,” he finally says in a terrifyingly small voice. “They’re gone. They’re gone.”

Tears stream down his face as he slowly shakes his head, repeating those two words. No. This cannot happen. He can’t be alone again- he can’t- he can’t-

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been crying for or even what is happening around him, until he feels someone close his eyes and rub his head. He doesn’t care who it is, but they feel real and they smell familiar, so he cries into them, pleading with unknown forces that he does not believe in to bring them back.

He can’t be alone again.

* * *

Even with the situation regarding the hand on his own, Sherlock does believe that Victor is truly, properly, and undeniably dead.

There is no one left to comfort him at night, no one left to hold him when the nightmares come or when the idiots of the world gang up on him- no one.

So he finds a replacement for him.

It comes almost like an angel from Heaven (and when a high Sherlock retells this story to him, Lestrade compares it to how Lucifer was an angel from Heaven), as he was walking along the desolate alleyways of London, trying to clear his head.

A dealer notices him, sees how he is fidgeting and nervous, trying to fight back the weakness of tears and sorrow. What others see as a freak, he sees as a business opportunity.

“They won’t shut up, will they?” he asks, assuming Sherlock was a schizophrenic or a bullied child.

Sherlock glares at him, neither confirming nor denying his statements. The dealer comes closer. “You could get them to shut up, even for a little bit. Plus,” he pulls out one of the needles, showing off the clear liquid inside, “it doesn’t feel that bad once you get a small taste of it.”

“Of what?” Sherlock asks.

“Freedom.”

The first hit is (luckily) free, and Sherlock takes it back to his flat. For several hours he stares at it, trying to use it as an invisible force keeps holding him back, forbidding him from ruining his life. The mysterious force inevitably loses, and he injects it into his arms.

It is as if his eyes have been opened and he can finally see. Everything was calming, he doesn’t have to feel all the thoughts in his head or the noises from outside, or what everyone was doing or thinking around him (not unless he wanted to). Everything was calm.

He was free.

(And the force mourned.)

But when the hit runs out and he is suddenly returned to the cruel reality of the world, Sherlock can no longer handle it. Everything horrible is intensified threefold and he needs to get another hit. He needs it. He _needs_ it.

So he begins the long process of selling everything he owns- microscopes, lab equipment, his computer, his books- and when those run out, he starts to pickpocket from wealthier people, trying to get just enough for his next hit. But none of that is enough- it is never enough.

And he finally sells the integrity and services of his body for the silence of his mind. He performs sexual favors for his dealers, blowjobs in dark alleyways or in shoddy motels. He does whatever is necessary for him to be able to get his next hit.

It is a cold morning when Lestrade doesn't hear anything from Sherlock, and he wonders if everything is fine. Almost daily, he used to get texts asking for cases or some snide comment about his choice in ties (which, in Lestrade's opinion, are the classiest ties he's ever seen).

He's noticed Sherlock escorting odd people to and from his flat, sometimes even in crime scenes- an odd assortment, never the same person twice and ranging from any sex and race. Had he not known any better, he'd think Sherlock is trying to move on past Victor.

But he knows better, and he checks up on Sherlock. The sight he sees is one he will never forget, and when cases get difficult and Sherlock gets manic, Lestrade remembers the dying boy on the floor, the syringe still in his arms.

Lestrade still blames himself, even when he knows it was all Sherlock's fault.

(In the end, no one is to blame except the forces of the universe.)

* * *

When Sherlock comes to, he finds himself in his bed, and he can feel them around him again. He can almost feel the warmth of Victor's strong arms holding him and the sit hand John runs through his hair. But at the same time, it isn't enough. Almost isn’t enough.

Lestrade comes in, carrying a cup of tea. He lays it on the bedside table, shaking his head. “This can't happen again.”

Sherlock doesn't know how to respond, so he accepts the cup and takes a sip of the tea. He can tell it is Lestrade who has made it (it has none of John's tenderness nor Victor's elegance, but instead tastes more like how he would imagine tea to taste, if that makes any sense).

He keeps talking. “I was thinking, maybe we could resurrect them.”

Now Sherlock finds his voice. “Are you talking about necromancy? That can't possibly be real.”

Lestrade chuckles halfheartedly. “So's your two boyfriends' ghosts haunting you. Besides, I don't think it's technically necromancy if they're ghosts.”

“That's exactly what necromancy is!” Sherlock protests, rolling his eyes.

“Well, then, yes. I guess I am talking about necromancy,” Lestrade nods. “Strange to think that this has become my division.”

Sherlock resists the urge to throw his cup at Lestrade, who begins to laugh hysterically. (Sherlock does not think about how inwardly glad he is for having Lestrade to distract him.)

* * *

One evening, Lestrade calls Sherlock in the middle of the night and asks if he can put him on speakerphone. Sherlock does so and places the phone on the middle of the bed. Lestrade mumbles some gibberish and before Sherlock decides to tell him off, something happens.

He can see them. Only for a split second, but there is no doubt in his mind that he had seen the outline of John's jumper (the one he was buried in) or Victor's prominent jaw (with the deep, soothing voice that eased Sherlock in the night).

They really are with him.

And just as fast do they leave.

“ _Did they show?_ ” Lestrade asks. Sherlock doesn't respond but he takes the hint. “ _I'll be over in a few._ ”

* * *

Sherlock has the book Lestrade used in his hand and it is poised to attack Lestrade when he is told that particular incantation only works once. But he lowers it (on his own will- Lestrade tried forcing it down moments earlier) when he is told that there is a way to bring the two of them back.

He asks if he can help but Lestrade shakes his head. “Sherlock, half the stuff on the list is illegal. If you're caught with this stuff, especially with your druggie background, you'll be arrested.”

“I don't care,” Sherlock crosses his arms indignantly. He wishes that he could feel Victor and John supporting him or calling him an idiot, but since the incident with them disappearing, he finds it hard to feel their presence.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade crosses his arms as well, and they remain that way for several moments until Sherlock finally caves in and allows Lestrade to do as he pleases. He just wants them back.

* * *

It is the anniversary of Victor's death. Sherlock is out on a case when he remembers what day it is. His hands tremble above the body as he points out all the small incisions on the neck. His voice occasionally falters while he is speaking and he tries to keep himself composed, insulting Anderson's forensics habits to try and make himself feel better.

When Anderson does not respond with a retort, staring at Sherlock almost in shock is when Sherlock can't take it anymore. He flees the crime scene, unable to think any more about the body lying there and instead thinking about the ghost that may or may not be standing beside him.

He doesn't know how far he's walked when he feels the familiar presence of Lestrade beside him, walking at the same speed as Sherlock before casually slowing down until they're both standing in the middle of an empty street.

“I've never been completely alone,” Sherlock finally admits, letting out a small sigh. “There's always been someone- something beside me to keep me going. Before he was forsaken by my father, it was Mycroft. Then it was my young kitten- Stanley, who died shortly before I went to Uni. Then it was Victor. Then it was cocaine. Then it was John. And now... Now they're disappearing and I am...”

Lestrade sighs, knowing what Sherlock is going to say, and he tries to coax it out of him before Sherlock says it himself.

“Lestrade, I am afraid.”

A small pause later, Lestrade wraps an arm around Sherlock's shoulder and gives a sigh. “Well, Sherlock, you know what they say: when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”

Sherlock blinks a few times, before turning to Lestrade with a questioning look. “How does that apply to this situation?”

Lestrade shrugs. “Dunno. I just thought it sounded smart.”

Sherlock looks at him in disbelief as he begins to laugh at his stupid joke, and Sherlock can't help but laugh with him.

* * *

“Hello, Victor,” Lestrade greets with a smile, casually walking up to him as Sherlock runs off ahead to look at the corpse.

Victor returns the smile, holding two cups of coffee (the second belonging to Sherlock who hadn't even taken a sip before abandoning it as soon as they got the call). “Hey, Lestrade. How's the leg holding up?”

Lestrade chuckles, shrugging. “Been better.” He looks over at Sherlock, bent over the body and examining the bloody wounds in the victim's abdomen. “He seems awfully eager today.”

“He hasn't even taken his daily cup of coffee,” Victor says, as he takes a sip from Sherlock's cup.

Lestrade knows something is wrong when he sees Victor's eyes widen and his dark face pale. He barely manages to ask what's wrong before Victor is collapsing on the ground and blood is leaving from his nose and mouth. He hears someone screaming in the distance, trying to reach Victor before it's too late.

The two cups have collapsed onto the floor, their contents soaking the hem of Lestrade's trousers.

He sees the moment the light leaves Victor's eyes, and he is the one to close them forever.

* * *

In the middle of the night, Sherlock gets a call from Lestrade. “ _When you saw John die, did you see the light leave his eyes or did you hear his last breath?_ ”

Sherlock frowns at the question, remembering that dreadful and horrifying day (one of two). “I heard his breath first.”

Lestrade sighs. “ _Alright, well, thanks for letting me know._ ”

He hangs up, but Sherlock does not go to sleep. He simply remembers.

* * *

John's bleeding body is in his arms, as his stupid face forcibly contorts into a painful smile. Sherlock can hear sirens in the distance, but he knows they won't make it.

John's blood seeps into Sherlock's coat, but he does not care. His tears spill over John's face as John tries to speak, but the physical pain in his chest is too much to bear. Instead, he keeps that smile on his face and gives Sherlock a look that says everything is going to be fine.

Both of them know it isn't.

Sherlock closes his eyes as John does, and despite the noise everywhere, he can hear his final exhale echo within his ears.

* * *

When Lestrade comes by Sherlock's flat and barges into his room, pushing the bed aside and pulling out a large duffel bag, Sherlock knows it's time.

He watches as Lestrade draws intricate symbols onto the floor with a small piece of chalk, placing candles in certain points before carrying the rest of the materials outside. “I'll be out here,” he explains, not going into the technicalities of why. Sherlock plans to ask after the whole situation is dealt with. “Call me in when it's done.”

Sherlock nods and closes the door behind him. He watches and waits, not knowing what is supposed to happen. Will John and Victor materialize out of thin air? Will they be brought down from 'Heaven' or up from the ground? What will happen?

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

When he opens them, they're standing before him.

John gives a wide yawn, as if waking from a nap as Victor stretches out his limbs. Both of them are naked, and both of them turn expectantly to Sherlock, smiling.

He gets up, tentatively reaching out both hands and touches them, expecting his hand to go straight through. When he meets flesh, Sherlock looks up at both of them.

“Yes, Sherlock, we're alive,” John gives a small smile, ruffling Sherlock hair.

“Glad to know that Greg is still reliable,” Victor says. He looks older, wiser, as if he's come back after never having died.

“He's the same old snarky git, that's for sure,” John laughs.

Sherlock moves to hug them individually. He first goes to Victor, and feels the long-missed warmth from him- he is different than when Sherlock last remembers him, but that is probably because his body is completely renewed. Sherlock would check to see if that is the same with John, but he feels someone behind him, placing a kiss on his neck.

“You know, since we have new bodies, we’re considered virgins,” he says wisely.

Victor chuckles deeply, shaking his head. “You think with your dick, John- that’s not the smartest thing.”

“So?”

Tears flood Sherlock's eyes, and he cannot stop himself from beginning to shake in Victor’s arms, before turning to hug John as well, and the three of them stand there in silence.

 They're back where they belong. With him.

* * *

Sherlock forgets to call in Lestrade, so he assumes it may not have worked. But when he walks into the bedroom, he finds them standing simply, naked and doing nothing. Shaking his head, he closes the door.

In that moment, Lestrade reevaluates his entire life. Why did he believe Sherlock? Why didn't he tell John to stay away? Why didn't he tell Victor not to drink the coffee? Why in god's name did he accept help from an idiot who sneaked his way into a crime scene?

And Lestrade knows he'll be asking these question again soon enough. And there still will be no answer.

This will frusterate him to no end by next week.

* * *

The skull is gone.


End file.
